When I was a kid I felt like the end of the world had come when I lost a game. Didn’t matter if it was a game of Monopoly or UNO, if I lost I could feel my cheeks heat up, my throat choke up, and my eyes sting with tears. I wanted to cry. I was pi$$ed and wanted to shout the cruelty of life to the masses.
At the time, I couldn’t celebrate the fact that my Dad took the time to play with me when he came home. All I could focus on was the fact that I lost and somehow I had failed. I had come up short…again. The frustration would overwhelm me and I would demand of G0d “Why couldn’t I be the one winning, why not me?” Losing absolutely sucked! I often wondered if that is why my sister always told me my Dad loved her and not me. She took great joy in rubbing that piece of information in my face any chance she got. I was unworthy. Losing a game only seemed to underline that fact. I felt like everyone was looking at me and either feeling sorry for me or laughing at me.
I have a very vivid memory of playing Monopoly at the kitchen table with my parents. Mom would bring out the air popcorn popper and we would snack on hot freshly popped popcorn drizzled with butter. My Dad always was the banker. It didn’t matter what set I started; before all was said and done everything was mortgaged to the hilt. At that point, the dice would roll, and my turn would take me to one of my Dad’s hotels. I could have a couple hundred dollars sitting in front of me and I would grab my large stack of one dollar bills and begin counting those babies as if they held the answer. It used to crack my Dad up to see me going for my ones first.
My Dad was the grand pooh-bah of game playing. He was competitive and played to win always. He even made up his own intricate card game that he and his friends gathered together and played often. He taught me that game and we played it often. He would often stop by my house in the evenings to play cards and share supper. We would play everything from his game to Skip-Bo. It was really mind blowing after he had a stroke and struggled to play the simplest children’s game with my daughter who was only 3 at the time.
Fortunately I grew up. Like my Dad before me, I have carried a deep love of playing games all through my life. By the time I was older I discovered the joy of playing simply for the sake of it. It no longer matters if I win or lose, it only matters now that I play and have fun doing it. I love playing games with my kids, and while my oldest loves the thrill of playing like I now do, my son struggles with losing much as I did when I was a kid. Even though I once agonized about why it wasn’t me who could win, now I am just as happy to play again and give winning another go until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
